


twenty-one

by PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)



Series: RabbitVerse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Even a short bit of casefic!, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-17 08:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12361905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/pseuds/PreciselyVex
Summary: Sherlock presents John with a challenge, and learns something new about him in the process...This work was inspired by a plot bunny of a question Batik once asked me. It was beta'd by the inimitable BakerStMel and published in the 2017 "Toplock Fanbook" (with the Rabbit-y mentions edited out for the uninitiated).





	twenty-one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts).



 

 

“What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

“And how long has it been…?”

“21 days.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

It takes 21 days for a bee to mature from egg to adult.

It takes a minimum of 21 days for a human to form a new habit. 

21 is a Fibonacci number, a Harshad number, a Motzkin number, and a Blum integer.

21 is the most widely played game in the casino, and it’s the atomic number of scandium. 

A foolish physician once estimated the weight of the human soul to be 21 grams. 

There are 21 shillings in a guinea, 

21 guns in a salute, and

21 spots on a six-sided die.

 And yet, none of this has anything to do with the fact that, three weeks ago, Sherlock intoned, “21,” in the aftermath of John’s climax.

“What, are we rating my orgasms now?” John said, still blissed out, his mind still hazy, still in space. “Because I’ll be honest, I feel like that one should have ranked much, much higher.”

Sherlock, straddled him and stretched to retrieve the small set of keys from the bedside table. “21 is not a rating, John,” he plucked the right key from the ring and edged forward to reach John’s wrists, which were bound in police cuffs and attached to the headboard. “If it were, I agree, that would have scored higher.” John watched him fit the key into each of the locks, freeing each wrist, and absently rub them as he continued to speak.“No, 21 is actually the number of days you’ll have to wait before you can do that again.”

John, now free to move, sat up slightly, and shot him a confused smile. “Sorry - until I can do what, exactly?”

“Until you can cum again,” Sherlock said, sunnily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Now, would you like to shower first, or shall I?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

“You’ve been counting the days, then?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Cheeky. And no cheating?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t dare…”

 

 

 

* * *

 

John had thought it would be easy. Before he’d met Sherlock - or more to the point, before Victor had changed the dynamic between John and Sherlock, going weeks or months even without sex was fairly common. He’d gone without sex for the majority of his teen years, during certain especially stressful stretches of medical school, and, save for Dev,  for a good part of the time he was in Afghanistan. Celibacy wasn’t a challenge for John Watson, but then again, this wasn’t about celibacy. 

This was about denial.

“It’s not fair,” John had protested on Day One, gasping as Sherlock stroked the length of his cock, taking him right to the edge before abruptly stopping short. 

“It’s not meant to be fair, it’s meant to teach you restraint, ” Sherlock chided, very close to cumming himself. “But if the inequity means your grip’s going to slack like that, I’ll have your mouth, then, love, and quickly,” he said, prompting John with a slight downward pressure on his good shoulder,  

And John? After a moment’s consideration, he complied.

 

 

 

* * *

 

“I envy you.”

“You envy me?”

“Of course. Your impending orgasm will be exquisite.”

“After three weeks, it better be.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

To say that the first week was difficult would be a gross understatement. Knowing he couldn’t cum meant suddenly, it was all John could think about. Suddenly, sex was everywhere: every commercial, every song on the radio, even the newspapers couldn’t shut up about the latest sex scandal. When he was away from home, his eyes lingered on strangers, wondering when they’d last had sex. 

And it only got worse at home. 

Being so close to Sherlock, having him at arm’s reach was maddening. It didn’t help that Sherlock’s interest in sex seemed to increase during this time — something he was sure Sherlock would say was unintended. Still, John couldn’t help but think that Sherlock was loving every moment of this process, the imperious, fantastic little shit.

The second week John was angry. Of the two of them, why was HE the one that needed to learn restraint? HE wasn’t the drug addict, for god’s sake! He was an upstanding citizen who’d studied hard, fought for Queen and Country and bloody hell, didn’t that deserve a reward? He grumbled around the house, irritated by the very presence of Sherlock Holmes and his sudden endless appetite for sex. Those cheekbones, that arse, even the very buttons on his bespoke shirts, tense and gaping, taunted him. That week John drank a bit more than he should, and contemplated clandestine shower wanking more than once.  _Contemplated_ , but didn’t do it. 

He tried to tell himself he didn’t do it because he was embracing the challenge. 

He tried to tell himself he didn’t do it because Sherlock would figure it out, anyway. 

He tried to tell himself anything and everything, other than the truth, which was that deep down? He wanted to make Sherlock proud.

By the third week, a sort of resignation had come over him with the appearance of the light at the end of the tunnel. Sherlock praised his efforts as his temper evened, and talked up that coming Sunday (which John had, of course, mentally dubbed  _This Cumming Sunday_ ). He just had to hold out for six more days, for five more days, for four more days and so on, until Sunday morning, at long last, arrived. John woke without the alarm, and immediately pressed a kiss to his favorite freckle on Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock stirred, eyes slow to open. “You’re up early.”

“It’s Sunday,” John said, kissing along Sherlock’s collarbone. 

“It is Sunday,” Sherlock said, an quirked a smile at John’s enthusiasm. “But it’s not time.”

John stopped, serious, and pulled back. “Are you having a laugh?”

“I wouldn’t joke about that. You want to do this right, don’t you? It’s not the full 21 days until exactly 10:33am, GMT.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, and pecked John on the top of his head. “The good news is that leaves us time for breakfast. Then we can break your other fast.”

John groaned loudly and collapsed back onto the mattress, throwing the duvet over his head. “Fine,” he shouted and commenced to muttering under his breath…

 

 

 

* * *

 

“Today is…

“Sunday.”

“And tell me, again John: what’s so special about today?”

“Today I get to cum.”

The clock on the bedside read 10:33. The flat smelled of toast and tea and John was practically vibrating in anticipation. Sherlock cocked his head, letting his eyes roam over John’s bare form, and hummed his approval.

“Does it ache?”

“Of course it does.”

“Horripilation along your thighs, look at that,” Sherlock handling him, cataloguing the effects. “Scrotal skin shifting, cock flushing darker, gorgeous.”

“Oh, sod the play-by-play, Sherlock, that’s only making it worse…”

“Turn over,” Sherlock said, as his bare foot pressed against John’s hip, pushing him onto his stomach. Delicious, his carelessness. At this stage of things, John was grateful for the restraint - in this case, the elegant, black knotted rope wound tightly around his wrists and up his back, preventing him from doing anything foolish. Because, Christ, now was not the time for that, not when relief was so close.

 “Your arms, shoulders, any numbness?”

“I’m fine. Please, Sherlock—“

“Please who?”

“Please, Sir.”

“Good boy. Grind into the mattress, John, and prove to me how desperate you are.”

John hissed, working his hips, 21 days worth of desire rising to the surface. Sherlock’s loaded words conspired with the coarse twist of rope around his chest, becoming tighter with every rise in respiration. The black rope was tied into a simple configuration, a cross-chest boxtie, which bound his hands and arms, leaving him helpless, leaving the rest of his body oh, so vulnerable…

Sherlock stripped down, and eased into bed. He wrapped himself around John, spooning him, his body curving perfectly around John’s solid form. Persuading him onto his side, Sherlock whispered into his ear, running his lithe fingers possessively along John’s hip. 

“You’ve done so well, love,” He gripped his chin, turning his mouth to meet his own, kissing him sweetly, even as he reached down to clasp John’s already-leaking cock — and oh, how John groaned. “I won’t make you wait any longer,” Sherlock reassured him, and after a quick nip to his ear, he reached back to grab the bottle of lube off the bedside—

—at the exact moment his phone, also at bedside, chimed the arrival of an incoming text.

They both paused.

“Don’t—” John begged. 

“—obviously not,” Sherlock agreed, and bit into the nape of John’s neck.

He whimpered then, arching backwards and pulling at his ropes until Sherlock slapped the flat of John’s arse, until Sherlock slicked his fingers and gripped John’s cock. It took everything John had not to spill when Sherlock began to tease him, pressing his hard cock lightly against his hole— 

—and at that exact moment a second text sounded on Sherlock’s phone, and this time, there was no pause.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” John whined.

“Less than a minute between texts. High probability it’s the same person, which—”

“Sherlock, don’t you dare—

“—are you threatening me, John?”

“Fucking right I am. So finish what you started. I mean, please. Sir.”

 Sherlock let loose a glare that rattled John, and had John not looked so impossibly needy in that moment, gasping, mouth gaping, lips flushed, Sherlock might have called him out for the insubordination. Instead, he simply pulled him roughly by the ropes, manhandling him, kissing him harder, faster, and hungrier than he deserved, because now was not the time for punitive action. Sherlock’s own anticipation, fostered by these interruptions, had fed his own need, and he impatiently pushed John  forward onto his hip, spreading his cheeks and pressing two fingers inside at once. He cavalierly gripped John’s cock with his free hand, stroking him in time with the fingers in his arse, rocking against him until John said “please,” said “christ,” said “oh, fuck, god, Sherlock—“

—and then John’s phone rang.

“Ignore it!”

“I can’t…”

“You can and you will.”

“Sherlock.”

“Shall I gag you as well?”

“SHERLOCK: Code.“

Sherlock stopped instantly at the sound of that word, John’s word, and pulled back, immediately.

“I can’t ignore it,” John explained, gingerly, reluctantly. “Doctor, remember?” He nodded to the still-ringing phone on the bedside, ringing from an unknown number. “Could you?”

“Oh, of course, I—“ Remembering that John’s arms were still bound, Sherlock reached for John’s phone and tapped the speaker, placing it on the mattress in front of him.

John attempted a professional tone. “Watson here.” 

“It’s Greg,” came the voice on the other end of the phone. “My mobile died and I’m using an officer’s phone. Sherlock not answering his texts, or is he just not taking calls from strangers?”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sorry, Greg, we were, ah—“

“—hanging some shelves,” Sherlock suggested in the background, annoyed. 

“—bit busy, sorry.” John glared, and silently mouthed “stop.” “What can we do for you, Greg?”

“An industrial bakery’s missing £6000 from its safe. Thought you boys might want to come out and play.”

Sherlock snatched the phone from the mattress and stalked through the room. “We’re not coming out anywhere. Turn on your bloody camera and show me the scene.”

Lestrade enabled video chat and quickly showed him the crime scene, the employees, the kindly, but confused owner and his family. Sherlock thumbed through his phone manically, grinning happily at the last, while John watched on, mesmerised.

“Right,” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing and his voice going into to the crisp, clipped cadence that John Watson loved more than any other sound on this planet. “The safe is in the owner’s office which is only accessible through the production room, the floor of which is layered in a fine coating of flour. The bakers are in the clear - on this level, they work as a close-knit team and any absence would’ve been duly noted. Gather whomever remains quickly and check the soles of their shoes. The one whose soles are marked with flour is your culprit. My bet’s on the man wearing the LotusCars cap, clearly the owner’s son — dimples, unattached earlobes and each with a widow’s peak, a dominant trait trifecta. With access to Daddy’s keys when Daddy’s failing memory - early dementia, perhaps, worth getting checked - makes him think he’s lost them, it’s a snap to enter the office, open the safe, and help yourself. Money should still be in his possession, but if it can’t be located, do inquire at the house of one David Elliot in Harlow, just ten minutes out of town. He’s selling a used Lotus Elise MK 1, and not-so-coincidentally, it’s a steal for, you guessed it, just over £6000.”

Lestrade’s stunned silence on the other end of the phone spoke for itself, as did John’s quiet moan, just as Sherlock reached the end of his deduction. 

Sherlock smiled and held the phone up to make one last point. 

“By the way, Lestrade, John and I are busy men, so now that I’ve helped you, could you please bugger off for the rest of the day?”

“Sure thing, Sherlock, and thanks.” Greg grinned. “Nice sheet, by the way.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and ended the call, smugly turning to John for comment but finding him, well…less than verbal. 

It appeared that sometime during Sherlock’s conversation with Lestrade, John had drifted back out to space, his hips moving, and he was once again searching for friction against the bedclothes. 

Sherlock thought of that small moan at the end of the deduction, the timing of the thing, and considered his path carefully. “You used your safeword, John, and even though it proved not to be a medical emergency, I’m glad you did. I should have considered that it could be. And while you can’t ignore yours, next time I will endeavor to shut my phone off before we engage.”

John murmured approval, and continued to pulse his hips. 

Sherlock tilted his head, cleared his throat, and sat on the edge of the bed. John’s proximity, his need, was stirring, and Sherlock struggled to keep his edge. “I would ask you questions, John, but I believe you’re beyond verbal discussion, so I think perhaps,” he said, leaving a heavy pause, “Perhaps I should simply deduce the answers.”

His punch of the word “deduce” went straight to John’s cock and John muffled his groan into the pillow. Sherlock smirked, and proceeded, pleased with the response.  

“My first thought was how long it had been going on, this kink, for it surely is a kink, isn’t it? Involuntary response brought on by a specific stimulus, immediate, untempered arousal at the sound of my voice, of my deductions, a verbal representation of my thought process, quick and sharp, isn’t that right?”

John’s eyes widened as his cheeks bloomed a telltale shade of pink, but he shook his head no, rather unconvincingly. 

Sherlock responded with a loud slap to the bottom of John’s right foot - unexpected and effective. “Don’t forget, love: I am well-versed in the eight ways the human body gives away a lie, I can detect changes in your respiration, in the dilation of your pupils and I can imagine the rush of thoughts your brain right now, in panicked defense.” 

John swallowed, his mind struggling to string words together from this far away place. “Not…lying, Sherlock, I’m just…embarrassed.”

“Oh, and shame is such a motivating factor with you, love, isn’t it?” Sherlock turned, the words coming out quick and quicker. “Only son of an overbearing mother and an alcoholic father, brother to the family disgrace, of course you had to do better, didn’t you, to give the family a semblance of normal,” Sherlock said, a pitying look on his face. “And of course you want to be good for me.”

“Oh, god, Sherlock…” John mewled, helpless, feeling his words at his very core.

“Listen to me: you desperately need to cum, you’ve earned it. But in doing so, I wish to test a hypothesis.” Sherlock pulled him closer, by the ropework, and began to tease the ends of the black rope apart, slowly and methodically loosening, but not removing, the knots as he spoke. “To that end, I’m going to make some observations, some deductions, and you’re going to climax for me, without anyone touching you.”

John’s confusion multiplied. “Without….touching?”

“Yes.  _Sans te toucher_ ,” he murmured, and pointedly moved away from John’s side, to the farthest corner of the bed. “You’ll have nothing but the sound of my voice, the rhythm of my words and the veracity of my findings to take you there.”

With his bindings loosened, John was able to bring himself to a sitting position without rolling his shoulders, and he did so, finding words still difficult. “That’s…not possible.”

“Oh, I assure you, it is. I’ve seen it on the internet. Arousal signals the nerves in the spinal cord to direct contraction of the muscles at the base of the penis.” Sherlock smiled. “Fascinating to watch. All that clutching and releasing…”

John felt his defences weakening already, as Sherlock’s voice fell easily into its lower register, every succinct, sibilant, syllable, that haughty tone, goddamn, and John was forced to admit, with proper motivation, yes, it might very well be possible.

“Right now, weighing your need doesn’t require many deduction skills, John, doesn’t require the use of scientific measures, of assessing pupil dilation or pulse rate, because it’s all on the surface right now. That open mouth, flushed face, the leaking of your cock and the spasming of your hole, all evidence. I see you, John, I always see you.”

John slowly sat back against the headboard and huffed out a breath, his body shivering, incited by Sherlock’s steady stare. He lowered his eyes, couldn’t look him in the eye, wouldn’t. 

Sherlock ran a hand down his own thigh, slow, measured. “That very first time we met, you called my deductions amazing, fantastic, do you remember? And I wonder: were you secretly suffering on that day? Was your cock straining against your pants, when we sat there in Angelo’s, when you said ‘it’s all good’, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t notice the tenting in your trousers when you stood up?” Sherlock’s hand curled around his own cock, and tugged, his eyes on John. “And no, you don’t have to answer that, the look on your face says it all.” 

John flushed, a deeper crimson, and he worked his hips helplessly into the thin air, braced as he was against the headboard, eyes locked to Sherlock. 

“21 days is a very long time for a man like you to go without, John, I know.” Sherlock breathed, his voice going momentarily breathy as his hand clipped his cock in just the right way, “From the flush on your skin, to the wildness in your eyes, to that flex of your hand that always, always surfaces when things prove difficult, from all these things, I know you’d gladly let me take you right now, hold you down, face down on the mattress, take whatever I want and you would give in under the guise of being a good boy, of being the best boy, because that would give you deniability, my love, because there are things that even now, after months beside me in this bed, that you still can’t say out loud.” 

This bit of honesty caught John off-guard, and his mind tripped, panicked and he broke eye contact, twisting, ungainly, in an attempt to sit up straight  “Can you, um, Sherlock, listen —  I’m…” 

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock soothed, his hands up, his tone reassuring, “I’m not going to make you say or do anything you want. I promise. I’m only here to observe. It’s all good.” 

“But I’m not good with this stuff. You know that.”

“I do. And you know your safeword.” 

Slowly, John leaned back against the headboard. He felt raw, his emotions live, a steady stream of data for Sherlock to consume, to hoard, to exploit, oh, fuck, because as much as that should have been a red flag, as much as John knew he shouldn’t enjoy being emotionally dissected, having this man’s undivided attention was as addictive as heroin and something he never, ever wanted to end. “Go on, then,” John said, cock still undeniably hard, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.

Sherlock resumed his previous posture. “Alright,” he said, and allowed himself a luxurious series of strokes before locking back into his deductions.

“You’re a good man, John, but not a particularly nice one - hence the smallish list of friends, but who am I to judge? Your internet history confirms beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are quite a filthy little thing, with such a penchant for following orders, you actually joined the British Army and nearly got your arm shot off in Afghanistan. Some boys certainly go to great lengths to find someone who will tell them what to do…”

John squirmed, pitched his hips forward, letting the cadence once again take him deeper and longing for Sherlock’s breath on his skin. “Please. More…”

Sherlock speaking kept pace with his stroking, which ramped up with the next bit. “You drink red wine when you’re feeling amorous, beer when you’re out with the boys and scotch with my brother because he favors expensive labels - so, a clever opportunist.”

Johns eyes were closed, and his thighs tensed and relaxed in time with Sherlock’s voice. “Christ, Sherlock, don’t stop…”

He not only didn’t stop, he went rapid-fire, losing himself to it just as much as John: “When it comes to sex, in general, you prefer women over men, but you prefer me over everyone. That should have been clear to me the day you crossed the whole of London to hand me a pen -- and certainly, I should’ve taken note the moment your dates began favouring me - but I can be distracted, can’t I, love? But then Victor intervened, and ever since, well, it’s been impossible for me not to notice your devotion.Given a choice, you always sit beside me, to my right, which, as I’m right-handed, automatically positions you at my fingertips. You’re always ready to defend me from harm, and defend my reputation, like a most loyal pet -- and on any given day, you stare, flirt, blush and employ that maddening swipe of your tongue - yes, that one - ever-present and oh, so tempting.”

John’s voice keened then, and Sherlock made his most telling deduction of the night: knowing the sounds John Watson makes as he approaches climax.

“You are so easy to work up, John, so game for a challenge, ready to go without for 21 days while I got off every night, sometimes twice a night, such a good toy.”

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock…” John held his breath as his body tense, his cock bouncing on its own, rapidly approaching his long awaited conclusion.

Sherlock charged forward, whispering hoarsely in his ear. “Cum for me, John — let go, for me, you desperate thing. Now.“

To say that John came as a result of Sherlock’s timely command implies that he had some level of control over his own descent. He most clearly did not, but rather let himself be carried away by it. He gave himself to it, gave i _n_  to it, and as soon as he did, relief spilled out in an arc, all on its own, without either of them lifting a finger.

 

 

 

* * *

 

“So, 21 days,” That same night, walking home from dinner, John asked the question that had nagged him for close to a month. “Why that number?”

“I don’t know. More than two weeks, less than a month, seemed right.”

“Oh, no,” John said with a smirk, gripping his arm. “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do anything without a reason.”

Sherlock quirked a smile. “John Watson, are you deducing me now?”

“Yeah, I think I might be.”

“Well, give it your best effort, then.” 

They turned the corner from Melcombe Street to Baker, and John considered what he knew of the man beside him. He squinted, as if Sherlock’s reasoning might be understood using the same method used to see Magic Eye paintings, but all he saw was a blur of collar and cheekbones, that posh coat topped off with that impossible mop of hair.

John frowned, his voice full of doubt. “Something to do with, I don’t know, some behavioural study? Or, or something mathematical?”

Sherlock shook his head as they approached home. “The thing is, John, you always expect reasoning to be clever,” he said, and stepped up to the front door of the flat to unlock it. “But most of the time, the reasons are just…staring you in the face.”

Standing at the door, he looked at John and winked meaningfully before moving inside. John turned to follow, and grasped the door knocker, just below the numbers 2- ** _2-1—_**

John stopped, shook his head, and sighed. John’s 21 days of frustration were courtesy Sherlock faffing about at the front door, no deeper meaning required.

“John, are you coming?” Sherlock poked his head through the still-open door, and registered that John had, in fact, gotten his hint. “Don’t be angry—in fact, you should be grateful. As you can see, it could have been far worse. I could’ve gone with all three!”

That’s when John began shouting about arbitrary numbers, and chased Sherlock up the stairs, as the door to 221B slammed shut behind them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> END NOTES:
> 
> \- After 21 days, Sherlock binds John using a [cross-chest boxtie](http://www.theduchy.com/XChestBoxTie/XChestBoxTie.shtml).
> 
> \- [Gorgeous black bondage rope...](https://www.twistedmonk.com/collections)
> 
> \- Dig deep in your grade school memory to remember these dominant (but not Dominant) traits - [dimples, unattached ear lobes, widow's peak!](http://learn.genetics.utah.edu/content/basics/observable/)
> 
> \- That telltale [Lotus Cars Cap](http://www.lotustalk.com/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=141390&stc=1&d=1264264018)...
> 
> \- ...and the car that goes with it, the [Lotus Elise MK1!](http://cdn1.evo.co.uk/sites/evo/files/styles/article_main_wide_image/public/images/dir_1144/car_photo_572185.jpg?itok=bvdMeY7_)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!  
> <3  
> vex.


End file.
